Summer
by Anime-Angel-Ash
Summary: There are nails—sharp, painful—burying themselves in his skin, digging into his chest, and he is hit with an altogether different sensation. Poland/Lithuania. Some dark elements


They forwent whips entirely, because Poland was not cool with that, even though he wouldn't say why.

Lithuania nixed the handcuffs, too, frilly pink things that were probably not useful for what he had in mind. ("I mean, like, they could work," Poland offered, turning them over in his hands and looking positively analytical. "They're totally uncomfortable, and could start to kind of hurt after a while, I guess?" Lithuania chuckled nervously and turned Poland down, despite the pout he got in return.)

By the time they got to the ball gags and serious restraining devices ("What are you supposed to even do with this?" Poland asked, chuckling and poking what looked suspiciously like a body bag), Lithuania threw up his hands in surrender. Whatever they were looking for, he decided as he swiftly made his way out, they weren't going to find it here.

"So whatta we, like, _do_ then?" Poland asks that night, hands on either side of Lithuania's face, pout laced with confusion and complimented by a brow lowered in subsequent irritation (the fact that he is wearing one of those ridiculous studded collars from the shop makes it extremely hard for Lithuania to hold back his laughter). "I mean, I don't even know where to start, Liet. Like, help me out here!"

"I, um," Lithuania starts, turning away to stare at the wall and try to think of some way to explain. That is a bit difficult, however, when he barely even knows what he's trying for himself. "I just . . . well, when it . . . hurts, it—it does something. Somehow." He laughs, nervous and ashamed, would rub his head if he had any wiggle room between Poland and the headboard. "It's just silly, I guess. I can't even—"

And then Poland bites him.

"_Augh!_ Poland, wha—!" Lithuania screams, flailing and trying with all his might to shove the other man off of his shoulder. He's gone mad! Bloodthirsty! Vilkatas! _Vilkatas!_

Then the Pole's hand sneaks to Lithuania's groin, pawing the appropriate bits of fabric,and Lithuania freezes, unsure what to think.

"God, Liet!" Poland groans as he pulls back, looking utterly annoyed and yet, Lithuania pointedly notices, not letting those fingers break stride. "Would you calm down? I'm, like, trying to help you here!"

". . . Oh," Lithuania answers intelligently. " . . . _Oh_."

"K'ya!" Poland snorts, shaking his head. "You are _so_ dumb sometimes."

"Sorry," Lithuania offers, and Poland huffs again, very dignified, before leaning down and kissing the other man to silence.

They go on like this for a time, and it's nice enough. Lithuania is more than happy to be lost in the feel of his partner's lips, the fingers that paw at him through his clothes. It's a good feeling, pleasant. It reminds him of summer, a nice breeze and rye fields, and he smiles against Poland's kiss.

Then there are nails—sharp, painful—burying themselves in his skin, digging into his chest, and he is hit with an altogether different sensation.

It makes sense that he would gasp—it _hurt,_ and that was a perfectly normal reaction to pain. But after only a few moments he isn't just gasping anymore, but moaning, blood pooling between both of his partner's busy hands. "A—_ah_!"

"You're such a wuss," Poland whispers against Lithuania's lips before he promptly bites the lower one, sinks his teeth in until Lithuania sure he's going to tear it clean through. He cries at that—oh God this is so stupid, it hurts it _hurts_!—but then it's shooting down his spine and up into his thighs and it's not pain at all anymore, it's—it's—

He doesn't understand this at all.

Poland, a master at his craft, has all the right buttons and zippers undone before Lithuania notices, reaches past them and fists his hand around Lithuania's cock much tighter than he probably needed to. His other hand leaves long, red tracks down Lithuania's stomach, starts along his thigh while its partner strokes and pulls and it shouldn't feel good, it shouldn't feel good _at all_.

"P—Poland," Lithuania chokes out, and arches into the other man's hands anyway, that distressing, unpleasant touch that was just so, so . . . He shuts his eyes, and he swears he can feel the beginnings of tears in the corners of them. His right leg is bleeding, he's sure of it; it isn't long before Poland abandons that completely and moves somewhere else. His fingers trail softly, almost teasingly—and Lithuania shivers because he knows what's coming, then does so again because the first wasn't out of anything like fear—along Lithuania's side before digging straight in, into old scar tissue, and Lithuania isn't sure what kind of scream he's choking back anymore.

He doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all. This is nothing like the fields, nothing like summer and nothing like Poland. This is pain, this is cold and snow everywhere and that man, _that _man!

But why does it feel so good? Why—what happe. . . Pola—

"Liet?"

It all stops so suddenly it's almost like shellshock, the distinct lack of agony leaving Lithuania blinking in confusion. Well, that isn't _entirely_ true—the welts on his skin are still throbbing, as is his cock. There is, however, no fresh wave of stimulation. Just a sudden weight on his stomach and chest, and the feeling of soft, fine hair spreading over his skin Poland lets his forehead sink down, resting on Lithuania's breastbone.

"Liet," Poland starts, mumbling against Lithuania's chest and not once looking up, "I don't like this. It's is weird. You look all weird. I ca—I don't want to do this anymore."

For a moment, everything is stillness, silence, a little less blood throbbing through abused veins. Then Lithuania reaches down, wraps an arm around Poland's back, and kisses the top of his head. "It's okay. Don't worry about it."

Poland, true to form, huffs in response, then undercuts his own brilliant argument by nuzzling further into Lithuania's chest. "You're so weird."

In answer, Lithuania lays back and stares at the ceiling, left ungratified. And smiles. He likes summer better anyway.

It isn't another day before Poland comes storming into the bedroom, flinging himself onto a sleeping Lithuania and thrusting what looks like a dog toy into his face. A clear, rubber one, studded and about as big as a—

Oh.

_Oh_.

"Liet!" Poland practically shrieks, smiling bright as the sun itself. "I got, like, the best idea ever!"

Beneath his nervous cringing, Lithuania smiles just a little bit, too.

Yeah. Summer is definitely better.


End file.
